Perhaps Remorse or a Great Time of Year
by The Incredibly Bored Wog
Summary: On a particular day, a particular balding individual decides through the wisdom's of his many years, he should not continue the pattern of following blindly. Even the most immoral of us all have lines to be drawn. And on this particular day, should the contents of the car feel much luck. M for Language.


Consistently there was this questioning to be ignored. That voice of reason you hear, which is usually just your own sexy-voice with a godly ring, he ignored that. It was irrelevant. He would do as he pleased abiding by himself and by those he truly respected, and not listen to the whims of a glorified reasoning.

This was Trevor.

A sweaty, balding, repugnant fellow who, despite being so utterly frightful, intimidating and disgusting, housed a certain charm which deemed him oh so irresistible. Or so he wished to believe.

The day itself was beautiful and clear, yet in its own way offered a sense of belittlement, to which it could go fuck itself with those fucking UV rays, as smoking was cancerous enough. If something were to be so incredibly dangerous to all the population, it should be him. Big ball of flaming shit in the sky, indeed.

Los Santos itself, although a disgusting city to be in, offered a beautiful view upon the track of the dirt-ridden road. Or perhaps it was the vision of the bloodied parts of the bikers he had eagerly torn to shreds, scattered across the land, and stained the dirt with parts of red and black which pricked up some form of nostalgia. But the blazing ball of shit almost instantaneously ruined his fucking nostalgia had make him pretty fucking angry again.

You see, Trevor's purpose had been blurred ever since his best-friend decided to rise upon the tenth year. Michael had given Trevor a job simply through order, rather than his silken coercion. If Trevor were to do a job, it would be clarity for him that at least he believed he was doing it for himself. Little did Trevor know that Michael himself didn't understand why the hell he was forced to follow that idiotic and bigoted billionaire? If money blinds humility, then certainly fortune should grace him soon.

But even if Trevor was aware of Michael's frame of mind, why the fuck would they not question the man? Always stick it to the man, fucking prick.

The job he was given was to simply dispose of the shitty, weak, uppity car B had given him without questioning its contents. IT was pretty evident there was a body in the car, yet the body offered no words or struggles, so perhaps B had a lot more in common with Trevor, (except a gargantuan dick) with parts of the body disfigured and mangled in the trunk.

And he remembered, ALWAYS QUESTION THE FUCKING MAN.

So he could forget about all the fucking cars driving passed and judging the stains of his pits, and pull over at that beautiful fucking view to see whatever the fuck kind of shit was being fucked with in the fucking car which is clearly a gesture of over-compensation.

With the best fucking swagger anyone could ever fucking lay their eyes on, he swaggered fucking majestically over to the trunk of the car, with the dirt-trail of other cars clustering between the creases of his jeans.

And of course, the assumptions and evil thoughts which ran his mind were nothing compared to what was truly in the trunk.

A girl.

No woman, a girl. No older than a high-school student.

Bound by duct-tape and a crude material of rope, at her hands, feet and mouth.

Trevor was fully aware of his deranged, disregarding and unkempt state of mind, that did not mean he was a mindless rage beast, (but this did not mean he couldn't be one when he so chose). At least he had some form of morals. Tying up little-girls and getting a psychopath to eradicate them discretely was lower than Michael's tits hung. It wasn't just this outrageous disregard of morals and respect, it was her stare. They had ceased to blink and were filled with water despite the arid setting they were in.

What the hell was he supposed to say? FUCK!

"There was a mix-up ok, I was wrong, sorry."

She ceased to quieten; even unbound she began to curl up into a ball after she had positioned herself upright. Seriously, why was she still crying?

"Look, I said I'm sorry!"

If she kept crying this loud, perhaps he was better off just dumping the car after all.

Ok regardless of the sadism Trevor experienced kicks out of; the previous statement was too far, he knew it. It was but a hyperbole he'd instantaneously regretted.

"So, you're crying. Ok, that's understandable, sort of. People say you should stand in the shoes of others and I guess if I were you I would've knifed me already, or at least not gotten myself in this fucking situation to begin with you dense, fuck."

The crying became louder for a moment for becoming consistent once again. He clearly had offered her a sound piece of wisdom based on his own experience, why was she being so fucking ungrateful? Her hair was splayed around her knees, and stuck to her face due to the sweat, saliva and tears pouring out of her face. What the fuck did she look like again?

"Well you're still crying, so... Well, what the fuck do you expect me to do about it?"

...

"Look, at least look up so I can see who the fuck I'm talking to? See at least I am CONTRIBUTING, to this conversation, ok? See, I am TRYING! While, YOU are just SITTING THERE, DOING SHIT KNOWS!"

The dark hair began to rise, and through the barely viewable splits in the damp hair, a glare could be seen. The knees on her faded jeans had been smothered with everything that had gushed from her face.

Her sentence was spoken very, very, softly between each hitch in voice due to sobs.

"You tried, to kill me."

"Yeah? Well, live and let die ok. You're good now, get up, get over it, get a boyfriend, do meth. Whatever floats your tits ok?"

"You tried to kill me."

"Well if this piece of shit conversation continues, I might fucking try again." spoke Trevor as he twitched his head inching towards her. He was clearly bluffing, fucking idiot, man.

"I-I don... Jus-s-... fuck... Just... Go. Pl-e-ease. Le-a-ave me a-a-alon-e-e..."

"Well, to be perfectly fucking blunt, you're in the middle of the fucking desert, if you want to get back to Los Santos, that's a 6 mile fucking walk, one you're probably not too keen to do. So in short, you're fucking stuck with me until you start talking some fucking sense."

"You're expecting some kid you just kidnapped to create a plan of action?" Her breathing became a lot more paced, it was beginning to slow, and her speech was a lot clearer. Perhaps this would prove to be a more enlightening experience then Trevor had first contemplated.

"You sound pretty fucking brave for someone who was just fucking kidnapped."

"I just, don't care. I see you, and I look around, and I don't know if all of this is real or not. So, will all due respect, you can do whatever the hell you want." She was no longer in a ball, her arms laid by her side, and some hair bushed from her face. She looked, empty.

"I'll have you know, that I'm pretty darn real." Oh darn, the intensity is increasing! Block your ears children, here comes THE FUCKING GRINCH. WHY DARN? WHAT.

"I'll have you know, that's exactly what an illusion would say."

"Ok, so I can do whatever I want? So I can just take you to the fucking strip-club then?"

"The darn strip-club."

"Hey, shut the fuck up ok. Get the fuck out of the boot, I'm taking you... somewhere..." said Trevor in an incredulously passive-aggressive tone, so obvious it was odd his bluff had not been called by now. The girl complied, although it didn't seem with willingness or with fear. As mentioned, her walk to the front of the car was as if she were dead.

Wade practically had a child's mind; maybe he would have a fucking clue, and actually be fucking useful for once in his dead-end life.

To the strip club.


End file.
